In life we find inspiration in a great many things; in the tender reading of a prayer, in the joyous laughter of a child or in the curiously soulless Susan Boyle version of a previously inspirational song. This week, as in most weeks, I have been inspired by myself. My recent clean up effort was so noble, so affecting and profound that I have decided to take up my mantle, to take the baton from myself, to continue my legacy in my name and basically do it again. But this time, to the max! That is, to the maximum amount. To the absolute most amount of doing it that can actually be done.

We find ourselves in the midst of the National Spring Clean, the campaign run by Keep Scotland Tidy that encourages people to take to the streets and clean them the hell up. I admire it for its principles and also its realistic sense of how much people can really be bothered with this kind of thing. Knowing that National Spring Clean Week isn’t going to cut it, they’re running the campaign from 14 March to 16 May. Like a persistent parent to our untidy teenagers littering the country’s bedrooms, they know we’ll get around to it if they keep nagging long enough.

It’s certainly worked on me. I vowed to get together a merry band of volunteers to scrape gum from pavements, take cans and bottles to the nation’s finest recycling centres, and generally risk contracting hepatitis C in the name of Gore. I drew up a list of required archetypes: the plucky youngster with a gal back home, the loose cannon who’ll recycle first and ask questions later, the former champion bin-man whose fame gave way to scandal, and the old rummy with a heart of gold and nothing left to lose. Then I figured it’d just be easier to join a pre-existing merry band of volunteers given there’s already 1,191 already organised.

To swell the ranks I’ll look to enlist a minion or two. I’ve already requested the help of my current life partner who, in the interests of anonymity, we will hereafter refer to as ‘Mrs Zero’. She’s got the strength of an ox, the heart of a lion and, sadly, the temperament of Ian Paisley. I’ve also nagged a former co-worker, friend and fan who, in the interests of anonymity, we will hereafter refer to as ‘My Bitch’. He’s a good guy, a loyal and fervent follower, and as funny to hang out with as he is to look at. They’ll be worthy additions to the team.

And for those of you trying to discover my real identity, be not fooled by my taking part in a Scottish campaign. The Zero Submarine from where I plan my attacks is simply in Scottish waters at present. Next week I could be planting trees on the streets of Reykjavik, building solar panels on the slums of Johannesburg or buying environmentally friendly washing up liquid from the corner shops of Scotland.

And so to March’s Charity of the Month which this month is taking place in the month of March. This thing isn’t just thrown together you know, it takes planning and coordination to get all the pieces in place.

It was a tough decision this month because there are a few big things going on: first, Libyans are fighting for a bit of the old ultra-freedom; second, Comic Relief is busy telethonning; and third, an earthquake, tsunami and potential nuclear meltdown have walloped Japan.

Amnesty International got a whack last month for a few countries looking to democratise and while I’m not saying I’m ruling them out because having the same charity for two consecutive months would be boring even if the cause was vital that is in fact basically what I’m saying. Besides, it seems like Libya’s gone past the point where Amnesty getting stuck in is what’s called for.

Comic Relief, meanwhile, is a cracking charity that does some amazing work and broadcasts telethons about as funny as rectal cancer. It inspires Steve from Accounts to shave his legs like he’s ker-ayzee, encourages Colin from HR to sit in a bathtub of baked beans like there’s anyone on the planet who hasn’t already seen it, done it or got bored of it, and allows Sandra from Learning and Development to dye her hair red and go a whole day saying “I’m mad, me” without being punched in the face. But then it raises huge amounts of money and spends it on poor people in the UK and Africa, was behind one of the first Fairtrade chocolate bars in the country and does all manner of good work, whereas the cynicism of my last sentence achieves nothing. It was looking like a sure thing until last week.

The earthquake and tsunami that hit Japan doesn’t fit any of the four categories of environmentalism, global inequality, advocacy or meddling set out in the Zero Mission Statement but I’ve figured it falls into the fifth, hitherto unpublished category of Jesus Christ Ain’t Life a Fragile Thing. Rich as it is, Japan’s got people suffering and money could do a bit of good. I’m giving to the Red Cross’s appeal and you can too, here.

If you’ve been through the Butterflies section of the site – and I assume you have given it now forms part of the national curriculum – you’ll have noticed how we frown upon littering. We frown upon it from above, with a downturned mouth and creased forehead. It’s yer basic frowning upon technique, the kind you would do with anything upon which you frown.

The point is we don’t like littering. Its wasteful, it’s lazy, it looks crap, it costs a ton to clear up and its downsides are so immediately obvious it’s baffling anyone bothers with it. You don’t drop litter, you have a clean street; you drop litter, you have an untidy street. It’s about as basic a cause-and-effect as shitting on your own teeth and wanting a gargle of Listerine. We could have streets and neighbourhoods and towns and cities as clean as Will Smith’s lyrics but instead we’ve covered them in cigarette butts, chewing gum and a hundred types of unlovely trash. It’s a weird thing we’re doing to ourselves here. It’s a symbol of every self-harming, thoughtless, pointless bit of mischief the human race gets up to in its quest to make life just that little bit more completely excruciating.

Tired of living in a shit-hole, I took to the streets armed with a couple of big bags, a pair of gloves and a hefty dose of vim and self-righteousness and began clearing up. In about an hour I’d scanned the street up and down and had collected 26 plastic bottles, 31 glass bottles and 56 cans of booze and fizzy pop. Mostly booze; like I say, the place is a shit-hole. They all found their way to recycle bins and thus the world’s resources were saved, the community took a greater pride in itself, its children applied themselves in school, convinced they had a future, and all but one of them now work as doctors, teachers and social workers. That last one fell in with a bad crowd from the end of the street where I’d left three cigarette butts and a half-empty bottle of Vimto but, damn it, there has to be some element of personal responsibility here.

This place being a hole, it’s not just cans, bottles and rusty lemon zesters that find themselves out on the street. For the past few months we’ve been sharing the pavement with a fridge. I’ve been walking past it shaking my head for weeks but, damn it, a shaking head doesn’t do much in this cockeyed caravan so I phoned the council and reported it. They picked it up two days later, leaving the street free of electrical appliances, their number on speed dial, my eyes peeled for the next bit of dumping and my chest puffed out with pride like the self-aggrandising prick I am.

And it doesn’t stop there. With the National Spring Clean about to begin I’m going to get stuck in good and proper. For now, you can enjoy these photos taken before and immediately after my clean up efforts.